


Amor Vincit Omnia

by onthewaters



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kink Meme, M/M, Roman Slave AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:32:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthewaters/pseuds/onthewaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for this prompt (http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4996.html?thread=7539844&style=mine#t7539844) at the kink meme: ....because dammit THERE IS STILL A HOLE IN THE MEME<br/>WHERE ARE THE ROMAN SLAVE AUS?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amor Vincit Omnia

„Well, Stichus,“ said I, thrusting my hand into the sinus of my toga to withdraw my handkerchief, „I must congratulate you. Truly, you have outdone yourself.” The slaver grinned somewhat sourly. “I am impressed, really. None other would have thought of it, not even bloody Milo.”

“Oh, come on, Spurius Herennius,” Stichus groaned. “It’s not that bad an idea!”

I laughed and pressed the perfumed linen to my nose. “Indeed not. I mean, look at him.”

We did. 

The slave was from Raetia, or Gallia, or Britannia, maybe even Germania Libera. He had the honey-colored hair you get in northern Italia, a moustache (now obscured by a scraggly beard), light eyes and a scowl to rival Janus’ back-turned face. He also had a muscular if now-thin body, deep-set scars in thigh and shoulder, and an attitude.

Stichus had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Just to summarize, old friend. He can’t sing, he can’t dance, he can’t play any instrument to be found in this city, he can’t speak Latin, or Greek, you don’t even know where he is from, he’s been through the wars, and if he could, he’d strangle you – and me! – with your shoestrings.” The slave’s mouth twitched at that; I took note but did not permit my face to change. “Furthermore, friend Stichus, he answers any question with growls like a constipated wolf.” Another twitch. How interesting. “And you contemplate selling him to Fulvia.”

Stichus coughed. I waved my handkerchief.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s brilliant. He should be right up her alley, considering her, ah, conduct while Antonius whiles away his time in Egypt.”

“Spurius Herennius, you’re taking the piss,” Stichus sighed. “Where else am I going to sell him? He’s got a limp, and the shoulder hampers him. Mines won’t take him, Capua will laugh at me, a private household needs some Latin in their slaves. Fulvia or Clodia or others of their set might at least get some use out of him.”

I shrugged. “If you say so. I assume he still gets it up?”

The slave tensed. I had to hide a smile. Stichus of course was oblivious and merely rolled his eyes at me. 

“Yes, he does. Now, unless you have nothing better to do than to harass me?”

“I think I do,” said I.

***

Shortly after, I was on my way home, out a modest sum and owner of a new slave. Said slave trailed after me, limp heavy and obviously real. The wound could not be that old yet, unlike the shoulder scar which had seen a few years of sun. 

When we arrived at my house, I waved him into the atrium where he stood and looked around, mouth hanging open. But his eyes were calm and calculating. 

I locked the door behind me and bellowed for my other slave. “Melissa!”

She came running, saw him, stopped dead in her tracks. “Domine, what is _this_?”

“It’s a man, you silly piece, or haven’t you seen one before?” 

She took my toga off my shoulders, skillfully catching the debris that tends to collect in the sinus. “I can see that, domine, but what is he doing here?”

I hesitated. The slave had turned around and looked at us with a slightly worried cast to his eyes. Melissa brushed the dust of my shoulders roughly and I began to think I might have miscalculated. She is a territorial slave, with the run of my household, and since I just had doubled my number of slaves, she might not take it too well. And while I could deal with seared bread and half-raw turnips, damp tunics and shrill voices in the morning after too much wine, there was not telling what she might do to my new slave.

But the slave seemed to have her measure already. He limped toward us. Melissa glared at him, her hand still on my shoulder, but he faced her instead of me, bowed and held out his hands for my toga. Her eyes alit on his scarred thigh and shoulder, on his downcast head, and she turned the glare at me. 

“Domine, aren’t you ashamed of yourself! Letting the poor man run around in his condition in this heat. He must be hungry. Here!” My toga was thrust back into my hands, and with as motherly an expression as I had ever seen on her, Melissa took the slave’s face into her hands. “You poor thing. Come to the kitchen with me, we’ll get you fed and clean. Domine, there is bread with oil, eggs, and apples in your study, and Lucius Curiatius called about the new honey.”

She drew him off and I was left standing holding my own toga. 

That could have gone better. But also far, far worse.

***

It was late evening by the time I saw him again, clean and shaved, obviously fed, and with the slightly wide-eyed look Melissa inspires in anyone she bullies. I escape her wiles, of course, and while I understand that our slaves must respect us, Melissa feels that a whip is the wrong instrument for gaining that respect. I came around to her way of thinking some time ago, and the weals healed quite quickly. 

The slave now stood before me, head bowed, hands clasped before him. Melissa had put him into one of my older tunics which stretched across his chest uncomfortably. I would have to have her alter one or two for him, and my food bill would likely double. It occurred to me that Melissa’s reaction had not been the only thing I had not thought quite through. But I had hopes for the new honey, and if I managed to convince Marcus Gellius that a cooperation – honey and spices – would be to both our advantages, I might shoulder the increased costs. 

And once he had regained his strength, he would be able to work. Possibly he would be able to repair the roof. 

Currently, though, he was fidgeting. I realized I had been sitting lost in thought for some time and shook my head. 

“Well.” I cleared my throat. “I don’t know if Melissa has already told you everything about this house, but – I am Spurius Herennius, eques.” I lifted my hand with its gold ring. “I dislike fuss, and my household is small. I trade in honey from Campania and Bruttium and I only just manage to keep myself a member of the Second Class. Occasionally, I assist other equites in negotiations since I am known to be disinterested in politics. Honey is far more interesting.”

He looked at me silently, still pretending incomprehension. 

“Now, about you.” I leaned back, cup in hand. And frowned. Melissa had – again! – given me the joke cup with the phallus inside. An admonition not to drink quite as much. 

“Firstly, you understand enough Latin to follow my conversation with Stichus, whom you hold in contempt. I know this because you showed amusement when I ribbed him. Secondly, the wound in your shoulder is at least four years old and was not treated correctly. You favor that arm slightly, but I have no doubt that it is strong still. Please do not feel driven to prove it, I like my nose – Roman, you know – as it is. Thirdly, the wound in your leg is less than a year old and you did not get it in battle.”

His eyes widened, and he tensed again. 

“Fourthly, you have been to Roman houses previously, you have already the measure of any exit, and you have charmed Melissa into allowing you to keep that moustache, which makes you look even more like a captive Vercingetorix, by the way. Fifthly, you dislike the idea of being a slave, and yet, you have not tried to escape which tells me that you intend to be here. Why?”

He gaped. Swallowed. And then, impossibly, he grinned.

And said something utterly incomprehensible in a barbarian language. 

I confess, I lost my countenance for a moment. I must have looked like a landed flounder. He laughed, easily and sweetly. My jaw dropped a little more, and he fairly shook with his chuckles. I closed my mouth with a snap.

“Be that way,” I grumbled, filling the joke cup again, taking care to stop when the level of wine reached the line. “I suppose I had it coming. Why I thought getting you away from playing prize bull to the likes of Fulvia is beyond me.”

He was still grinning. But he shrugged, and then he – finally! – spoke Latin. Slightly accented Latin, but Latin nonetheless.

“Domine, thank you for getting me away from playing prize bull to the likes of Fulvia.”

“Ah, progress,” I commented sourly. He smiled. “Care to answer my question?”

“I’m afraid it’s not my secret to tell,” he said. 

“In case it escaped you in all this excitement, I am your owner now and – wait.” It was a horrible thought. “Did Stichus set me up?”

“No, domine,” he said, finally serious. “Stichus had nothing to do with it. I don’t know about his plans for me, but as far as I know, he did not mean to set you up.”

“Thank Minerva for small mercies. Being bested by the likes of Stichus would destroy my reputation.” I drank. “Sit down, will you? That leg has to hurt by now from the way you’re dancing around on the other.”

He pulled up the stool I indicated and sat. “I thought I can’t dance?”

“Do you wish to prove otherwise?”

“Not right now, if you don’t mind, domine,” he said. “To answer your question – I was sold to Stichus for a reason by my former owner. If you ask Stichus who that was he will most likely tell you. The intention was for him to sell me elsewhere – someone else was meant to buy me. Not you, though.”

“And once you were sold elsewhere, what precisely would you do?”

He shrugged and kept silent.

“I could whip you.”

“I have met Melissa, you realize. Domine.”

Foiled. Foiled quite securely and excellently indeed. I tapped my fingers against my cup. “Show me your hands.”

He rose and held them out to me. Stains, small scars made with sharp blades. Strong. I turned the right one palm up. He had no scars on his wrists, so had never been chained harshly. And despite sounding like out of New Comedy – he had not been born a slave.

“So what can you tell about me from my hands?”

His voice was very near. Low and soft, and I had to force myself to remain still.

“Well. You haven’t been a slave long.”

“Ah.”

“Yes,” I said, cleared my throat. “You work with blades, but you are not a cook. Your fingers are short and square but dexterous. And you.” I felt his breath against my forehead. “You work with tinctures, you – you know Greek.”

“You can tell that just from looking at my hands?” He was purring. Like a cat. Like Melissa with a new bangle. 

“This stain is from a distillation known only on the Peloponnesus and in order to even make it, one would have to understand the language of the recipe.” His thumb rubbed over the stain I had pointed out and even though I was not looking at him, I felt that he was smiling. “You are a doctor.”

His hands turned in mine and grasped them. I started up but his face was serene, smiling. “So I am found out.”

***

There have been times when my father attempted to marry me to some worthy girl. I had always managed to get out of it by doing something scandalous and pointing people at my brother Manius. By the time I established myself as honey expert and merchant, Manius had risen to First Class, iron ring and all, and I was mainly left alone. I led the life of a recluse, and was happy to do so. If I needed to give my body release, I availed myself of the cubicles or the streets behind the temple of Diana. Melissa had figured out early on that if I ever were to gain a cognomen, it would most likely be Atticus – for the Attic practice of loving men. Manius knew as well, but they were the only ones. 

And this – this slave doctor had figured it out within moments. And he was smiling. 

His face came closer, and for a moment I thought he might kiss me. But he didn’t, he just touched his forehead to mine. 

“Domine, is there perhaps something you – want?”

This was a new experience. The men of the cubicles and the streets were, well, not men usually, but boys, whereas he was most definitely not, and Venus bless me, what he was seemed to be exactly what I had been missing in my previous encounters. 

“Want, yes,” I said. His smile turned wanton and his lips pressed against mine, moustache and all. He wasn’t pliant, he demanded even as he gave, and I tasted the honeyed bread Melissa must have given him on his tongue, thinking that he would be tasting wine on mine. 

Worshiping Priapus came without effort and he seemed so pleased by my cockstand that I could but watch in helpless fascination as he licked it, rubbed it, played with it as if with a new top, so much unlike the whores who viewed the act as work, work, work. He played. I let him, only realizing that he was reaching for the dish of oil when it scraped against the table. My hand on his arm stopped him. 

He ceased his toying and smiled up at me, licking at his lips. “Objections, domine?”

Did I have objections? It was not the done thing, it was taking the part of the slave myself, but did I care? Did I want to care?

I let my hand fall away, and he slipped his oil slick fingers into my body slowly, slowly, and slowly again he moved them, and his lips smiled against my cockstand, and I saw Venus smile. 

I must have fallen asleep, then, for when I woke up, he was gone. 

***

Melissa, for once, declined to tell me that she had told me so. She hadn’t, of course, but it had never stopped her before. She had simply told me that he was nowhere to be found, and that she was going out to market. 

I stayed in the study, feeling incomprehensibly foolish and languid. At noon, a runner came with the apologies of Stichus and the return of my money. I contemplated everything from throwing it against the wall, to suing Stichus to get me that slave back, to drink it all away, to change my trade from honey to honey-colored slaves.

I had not even known his name.

I could find out, of course. But even if I did – what good would it do me? With the return of his price, I had no legal grounds to demand him back, and since he did have a previous owner, I would lose. And lose badly. At best I would look a fool, at worst, I would gain that cognomen, and then I might as well move to Greece. But I was Roman, Rome was where I was born and Rome where I would die.

In the end, I wept but little, feeling even more foolish, and spent the afternoon in the baths. There was nothing to be done other than to move on; move on I would. Venus alone tells us where to love, and she loves our pain as much as our pleasure.

***

It was several nundinae later that Melissa, fairly vibrating with suppressed excitement, came into the study to announce a caller. 

“His name is Gaius Marcius Rufus. He says he’s here to discuss oil.”

“They all come here to discuss honey,” I grumbled. “Why would he come to discuss oil? Send him to Sextus Tremelius if he wants oil.”

Melissa crossed her arms. “Well, he’s here to see you, and if he’s willing to speak with a man who hasn’t seen a bath from the inside in three days, you could at least talk to him.”

“Oh fine. If I must.” I pushed the books back into their buckets, and tugged at my tunic, then stood up.

And sat right back down. 

It was he. In a toga. 

He smiled, a little shyly this time, and he was not yet used to the toga, at least he had not been wearing it for longer than a few days, he was still trying to move his left arm, and the sinus was empty. But he wore it unafraid of crucifixion as he would if he were – still – a slave.

“Congratulations,” I said.

He bowed slightly, dislodging the cloth. “Thank you, Spurius Herennius. I am glad you could take the time to see me.”

“Yes. I mean, I am glad as well that you came to visit.”

“My manumission is recent,” he said, “and I have become your neighbor on the left side. I felt it proper to introduce myself.”

“Discussing oil?” I asked before I could think better of it.

His smile – the wanton one – made another appearance. “If you wish.”

“Ah.”

“Truth be told, I also came to offer my services, in case they might be required. I was manumitted for my services as a doctor to my former owner, Gaius Marcius Strabo.”

“I see.”

“And I also came to apologize.” He was serious now. “My way of gaining free of this house was not the most proper.”

“No,” I said, throwing caution to the winds. “But it was pleasurable to me, and I believe I should not be averse to do it again. For now, Gaius Marcius, stay for dinner.”

“I should like that,” he said. “But call me Rufus.”

“Rufus,” I said, testing the name. “Did you not have another name in your own lands?”

“You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it,” he said, eyes crinkling.

“I might need to practice,” I said. “Do I have time?”

“Yes,” said he. “You do.”

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse. Except that it was fun.
> 
> ***
> 
> If you consider posting this work to Goodreads: Please do not do it. These stories are fanfiction, and I don't want them near a site that's primarily for published original fiction.
> 
> While I appreciate that you might enjoy having them on your Goodreads shelves, please respect my wishes.
> 
> Thank you.


End file.
